Dressing Up
by kasswrites
Summary: After all, this is what you dressed up for. One-shot. Leaving is difficult, no matter what it is you're letting go of.


_A blur of odd emotions needed to come out._

_And this is the result._

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You apply the foundation first; it's a rule of beauty.

It glides over your skin smoothly, solely because the moisturiser and primer have already been applied, just as your hair has been freshly washed and blow-dried.

You wear your favourite article of clothing; a white cotton summer dress. You've owned it for two years now, yet no other piece you buy can outshine it in its place as your favourite. Perhaps its beauty lies in the simplicity of the design; the small baby pink roses embroidered along the neckline and hem; the lightness and freedom of it all. Either way, it is the most cherished of the items you own.

Your feet slip into your favourite high-heeled slides; white, to match the dress. You stop for a moment to admire the professional pedicure you had done earlier today.

Your white headphones are inserted into your ears as you move on to eye shadow. You retrieve the small brown case once more, from the top draw of your dressing table. Licks of mascara coat your eyelashes as you blink down on the curved brown brush, enhancing their length and breadth. You decide against eyeliner – you don't want to look too over-the-top.

Jewellery is next. You choose your favourite – white-gold hoops, pushing them through your earlobes slowly and deliberately. You already wear a ring and a bracelet, and a necklace would simply be inconvenient.

Your manicured nails sweep your long, recalcitrant hair back from your face, baring your pale neck and décolletage. You trace around the almost indistinct red mark that rims your neck, grimacing. That won't happen again.

Staring into the mirror, you almost smile at how good you look. You do not notice, but you stay here, watching yourself, for more time than you think.

You apply a neat, precise coat of red lipstick, which looks extremely defined against the stark contrast of your pale skin. It reminds you of blood.

After glancing once more, at the girl in the mirror, you turn to your desk to sit down on the old chair, moving with slow, calculated movements. You still taste the last thing you ate on your tongue; a lady Godiva chocolate truffle. Your lips quirk briefly with the memory.

It takes you ten minutes to produce the final product. By the time you are finished and impressed with yourself, there are roughly ten balls of paper in your waste-paper basket. You have thrown your diary into the large, antique fireplace adorning the main wall in the kitchen previously today. You fold the piece of paper and write a further three words on the blank, perfectly white surface.

Upon returning the pen to the holder on the top of your desk, you stand slowly. Your iPod finishes one song, then another, and yet you have not moved. You absentmindedly run your fingertips up your left arm, grazing the tender skin with your new, fake fingernails.

You walk, always slowly, to the large white bed that was purchased on your birthday, three years ago. You admire the pillows and the beautiful, detailed bedspread; white, just like everything else. You smooth it down needlessly, swiping your hand across the white, soft exterior. As you sit down on the end, the bed audibly protests at the sudden matriculation of weight upon it.

You seize a cord in your hands, after changing the song currently playing to your favourite. You clasp your knees together and relax your shoulders, assuming a pose of utmost dignity.

The cord is placed around the back of your neck, on top of your fresh, strawberry-scented hair. You scoop it out of the way, before bringing the cord around again, so there are three coils around your neck, assembled on top of each other. It reminds you very briefly of a snake, and you shudder at the thought, feeling a cold shiver ascend your spine. You remove the slack in the cord by pulling gently at each end, feeling it snug around your pulse, which is beating with the same rhythm that it always assumes.

You chance a look at the mirror, just to the left of you, to see your face in a shade of deep pink, as if you are embarrassed. You turn back to the cupboard ahead of you, pulling a little harder at the ends of the cord around your neck.

Your throat spasms a few times, before bringing forth a cough that makes you loosen the cord, only out of inevitable movement. You take three deep, calming breaths before pulling at each end of the black extension cord with as much strength you can muster. You feel the crushing, binding feeling in the base of your throat, making you wheeze in effort to fill your lungs.

You cough again, loudly and horribly, feeling a dull burning in your throat.

Your skin singes and you slide from the end of the bed with your next cough, gasping and reaching for both air and condolence. You do not feel miserable. You feel comforted, knowing that in a few moments, it will all be over. You won't have to wake up to another day; won't have to deal with another problem.

You briefly ponder that you're taking the coward's way out, but you assure yourself as instantaneously as that thought materializes, that what you're doing is not cowardice. It takes strength to end it.

The clutching, inhibiting cord around your neck comforts you, as you feel you head erupt with a disorienting blur of a headache. You're not getting enough air to your brain. It'll be over soon. You splutter, faintly recognizing the red tint to the fluid that comes forth from your mouth. You hope it doesn't get on your dress. You head swims dangerously, threatening you with unconsciousness. Your eyes feel as if they might pop out of their sockets any moment.

You slump back against the foot of the bed, your head the only thing upright, the cord's tension finally slacking.

Your lips quirk up before it all finally goes black.

After all, this is what you dressed up for.

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_Reviews are like waking up from a horrible dream and realizing it's just that._

_Please Review_


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